


Obitus

by Anonymous



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, based on Hades and Persephone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When the god of the dead comes calling, a price must be paid. If that involves his soul, then so be it.





	Obitus

-

 **obitūs**  (noun)

1\. The act of going towards, approaching, encountering

2\. The act of going down, falling, setting

3\. Downfall, destruction, ruin, death

-

 

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The steady, high sounds from the electrocardiogram provided the only noise in the otherwise utterly still room. The walls were a blinding white, the sheer curtain at the window open to let in faint sunlight that streamed across the nearby bed. Set behind the curtain on the sill was a silver vase full of flowers at their peak in bloom, roses and carnations and lilies artfully arranged in a tasteful display. But whatever fragrance they had was easily drowned out by the overpowering smell of antiseptics and chemicals, heavy and nauseating in its thickness.

Or, at least, it _would_ be nauseating if he was someone else in this place—anyone else. A human.

It was a familiar sight, a scene that had played like a film reel too many times before to count. A dying mortal, still and quiet in their final moments of life, weak in their bed, while loved ones alternately wept and comforted each other in their anguish at said mortal’s side. The mortal’s soul would be flickering faintly by the time he arrived, silent and dark and waiting as a shadow.

Sometimes, there would be last words—a mere gasp of frail reassurance, a whisper of love, a plea. Other times, there would be nothing before the soul rose slowly to follow him with sobbing people in their wake.

In any case, in any moment, it was always the same. It was routine, in other words. He had long stopped feeling anything but indifference towards this duty; any twinge of sympathy he felt for such helpless mortals would always come and go.

The soul he had been sent to collect this time was a small one, that of a very young boy. It was always a pity to collect children, he had to admit. They had barely lived at all before being taken away, and depriving someone of life just when they had begun to grasp it seemed cruel—but such was fate, and he could not be one to question it. The call to collect was an instinctive pull that took him, traveling through shadow and earth, until he came into the scene as an apparition unseen by anyone but the soul that brought him there.

As he had expected, the soul here was flaring and fading alternately—almost like a candle flame in the body of the frail boy lying in the flat hospital bed, gowned in a patient’s mint green uniform and already pale like a corpse. An oxygen mask covered most of his face, and his bangs brushed against his closed eyes with every weak movement of his chest. The electrocardiogram matched the repetitions of his soul perfectly, increasing in sound with every particularly bright gleam and quieting with every dimming.

Surprisingly, the room was completely empty save for another young boy huddled at the dying soul’s bedside. He seemed to have fallen asleep, slouched down with his face pressed against his folded arms on top of the bed sheets. The sunlight that streamed into the room caught on his golden hair, bringing a strange kind of gleam to it that abruptly drew the entity's attention to something else about the boy.

This boy’s soul was alarmingly different from the dying one: it was brighter, stronger, unwavering in a glow that surrounded him like a flame. It was a glimpse of color in comparison to the paling gray of the soul to be collected; it was nothing but untarnished purity incarnate. It was a beacon in an otherwise faded room, practically calling out to him despite not being the one he had been called to take.

But he couldn’t take this one, he reminded himself. The one that had to be taken was lying within the bed, not sleeping innocently beside it. Distractions could not be permitted for such a basic mission, and he knew this. He gritted his teeth and turned stiffly away. _Focus,_ he willed quietly.

Slowly, carefully, as was custom, he lifted one hand from within his pitch black cloak and reached out towards the dying boy. It was a silent beckon, a command that called on instinct. It only took a few moments at most.

Gradually, gradually, the soul began to move. It began to lift, almost float, moving slowly towards the air, a growing light—

“What are you _doing?!”_

—and it stopped midway, still trapped within the boy, as he slowly turned towards the voice. The other boy was awake now, having shot to his feet and staring right in his direction, _glaring_ at him.

But the boy couldn’t be, he thought with a jolt of what felt like panic. That wasn't possible. No mortal could see him unless he wished it, and he was always cloaked in the invisibility of darkness when outside of his domain. How—?

“Who are you?!” the boy shouted, his voice rising in response to his shocked silence. “Get away from my brother, you—you—!”

He reached out and actually made a _grab_ for him, and that was when sense kicked back in enough for him to effortlessly elude the child’s hand. The entity moved smoothly back, standing against the window as a dark silhouette in the sunlight as the boy gaped in obvious fear.

“Who…?” he repeated, his voice now a weak gasp.

He, for a brief moment, surveyed the child with narrowed eyes. There was horror in the boy’s expression, just like that of most mortals who first saw him when their time in life ended. It was predictable, really. They usually expected angels in white or familiar loved ones to greet them when they died, not a gloomy spectre in black with a mantle of raven feathers.

But this familiar look of fear had something new to it, something different. There was still fire in the boy’s eyes, still that anger of a brother’s protectiveness for the dying soul in the bed. It was brighter than even the strange radiance of his soul, raw and untamed and utterly bared in the same way an animal would show its fangs.

It was one surprise after another, all from this mere mortal—a mere _child_ , at that. It was, admittedly, impressive.

He chose his words carefully when he spoke. “I’m here to make your brother better,” he said simply. He made sure to make his voice soft enough to seem gentle and pleasant, almost like a human’s.

But the boy only furiously shook his head. “No, you aren’t!” he spat, his glare returning in full force. He had to marvel at how the blaze in the boy's eyes remained unchanged. “You only want to hurt him! To—to take him away! Just like _everyone_ here does!”

Tears were in his eyes now, but he was blinking hard and fast to fight them back—a classic child’s move, trying to seem too grown-up to cry. The black-haired entity wanted to smile, almost, but that would only seem mocking.

 _“Everyone?”_ he drawled quietly. He reached forward, pale fingers snagging on the boy’s shirt to drag him forward in one swift movement, and the boy gave a sharp gasp as the god's eyes met his. If the boy had been frightened before, that was nothing compared to now. But even now, there was still defiance to match the fear in every part of the boy’s face—a refusal to be bullied or threatened, even if it was by a being far more ancient than he could ever understand.

“I am not _everyone,_ boy,” he said coldly, his voice now dropping back into a low rasp. “Remember that.”

For one long, still moment, they stared at each other—dark, dark eyes taking in the unusually warm gold of the boy’s irises and their sheen of angry tears, as the dying boy between them continued to weakly gasp and breathe in his last moments. Just as abruptly, he released his hold and the boy practically collapsed to the floor.  

“But you’re right,” he continued, his voice soft again. “I’m here to take your brother away. It is his time.”

 _“No!”_ All fear now forgotten, the boy rushed to his brother’s bedside and flung himself protectively across the other boy’s body. “You can’t take him! You _can’t!_ I won’t let you!”

Ah, the pleas of loved ones at the bedsides of the dying. He had heard them all, and this was no different. At least this boy couldn’t surprise him in _that_ department. “I must,” he replied flatly, raising his hand again. The soul was almost out of the dying boy’s body; it was only a matter of completing the process. “Move out of the way now, child.”

“No, no, _no!”_ The boy was openly sobbing now. “Please! He’s all I have left! I’ll—I’ll give you anything!”

_Anything._

That should not have piqued his interest as it did. He was used to desperate bargaining; he had seen it all before in his own domain—souls begging to be let onto a different boat, souls swearing on their loved ones’ lives that they hadn’t done this or that. But those who’d done the begging and the bargaining had never had anything of value to offer other than terms of servitude, and he had enough servants already.  

But this boy’s soul was still calling out to him—so clear, so perfect in its cleanliness, too unblemished to belong to a mere mortal, yet still as small as a mortal child's. How it was in that state, he could only guess. And how this boy could see him where other mortals could not…that was simply incomprehensible, but he had the suspicion that it was not unrelated to the former.

Here, he would have to tread carefully. It would be one exception, he knew. It could only be that and nothing else.

“Alright,” he answered calmly, leaning forward to meet the boy’s eyes again. “If you want to keep your brother, I’ll ask for only one thing from you.”

“What? _What?”_ the boy asked frantically, his grip on his brother starting to tighten.

He watched him carefully for his reaction. “Your soul,” he replied, keeping it brief but as pleasant sounding as possible.

The boy stared at him. The boy blinked. The boy hastily wiped his eyes with his arm. “My—my what?” he choked out.

“Soul,” he repeated smoothly. “Just your soul. That’s all I ask. I will only collect when the time is right.”

Now the boy’s eyes were flicking back and forth between his face and his increasingly pale brother. “If—if I give my soul,” he answered, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady at this point, “then you’ll leave Al alone? You swear?”   

“I swear.” Technically, he couldn’t leave this "Al" alone forever—after all, everyone died eventually—but that wasn’t the point. He met the boy’s eyes again, holding his gaze. “You have my word.”

“Then yes.” The boy’s answer came so abruptly that the entity found himself blinking for a moment. Now the boy looked defiant again, standing up straighter over his brother as if to make himself seem taller—like a guardian, a protector, with the shine of his soul illuminating him. “You’ve got a deal.”

_It was done._

No turning back now.

This time, he allowed himself a smile. A small, thin one.

“Good.” With that, he lifted a hand—the boy tensed—and lowered it as a final silent command. The soul, on the verge of departure, sank back into the dying boy’s body. The child let out a sharp gasp of air, a longer breath, before falling into sleep as the noises on the electrocardiogram settled. His brother—his sacrificing, faithful brother—watched the god as he turned away.

“Oh, and one last thing,” he added nonchalantly, stealing a glance over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

The boy jutted out his chin, his glare never wavering. “Edward.”

 _Edward._ He rolled it around in his mind, savoring the syllables silently on his tongue. He flashed another smile at the boy— _Edward_ —with all his teeth bared this time.

“Goodbye, Edward,” he said softly. “Until we meet again.”

Without another look back, he vanished into the same shadows from which he’d appeared.

Edward.

He would remember that name.


End file.
